Cowardice: A Manual for the Red, White, and Blue
by LadyLazarus33
Summary: Amelia has eighteen years of problems, and nearly half of those could be fixed if she was better at communicating. Revolutionary War!/Fem!America.


**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_September 3, 1783_

He finds her standing beside one of the windows in a vacant office, shoulder leaning against the wall with arms crossed. She dressed wrong for the times and the weather, opting for a man's shirt and breeches, but no shoes. Her bare feet are a slight tinge of blue, but he knows it will fade.

"You've done well." he points, taking off his hat and letting the blond strands fall about his face.

Amelia snorts. "Right." As nonchalant her attitude seems to be, Francis can sense something brooding coming up to the surface.

She turns to her father-the word makes her flinch-blue eyes cold. Francis waits patiently, leaning against the table with the pose of something that reminds her of a cat. "I've done my job, my duty. I took his rules, burned them in his face and my people are free but-" The nation cuts off, running a hand through her hair in agitation. Francis can see her hand twitching.

Moving over to the table, she grasps the glass paperweight in hesitant fingers before bouncing it up and down. Francis watches her actions for a moment, before heaving a sigh, and crossing his arms. "If you have something to say, say it."

Somewhere in both of their minds, the words are practical but at the moment it only seems to make the black ball of confusion in her stomach grow even bigger. Amelia stares at the object, catching the burning orange light of the sunset into its frame.

"_Mon Dieu_, you're so alike and you don't even-"

"Shut up, Francis." She spits the words at him, grip tightening on the paperweight with so much force she thought it would fragment into a million pieces into her hand. Francis' eyes narrow at the remark and a small part of her takes some sick pleasure in his annoyance. But of course, he took everything in stride. Extending a hand, he twirls a strand of her flaxen hair around a finger, tugging lightly.

"It's over." He muses, watching the way the hair caught the too orange light from the fall sky outside. "The violence, the bloodshed, it's over."

"Did I do the right thing?"

"I can't answer that. You know that."

And a part of her _knows_ that he is right, that the decision to live with or without this unhappiness plaguing her every waking moment was hers to make. Amelia shoves away from the table, making the desk rattle slightly and stalks away from him, though he knows she's not leaving the room.

"What do you want me to do? Hmm? I practically fought your little rebellion, _ma cherie." _He calls after her, the statement making her whirl back around. "Don't that you can just stomp off like some spoiled brat. "

"Shut. Up." She's practically shaking now and he's too blinded by his frustrations to stop.

"Why should I? It's the truth."

"Go to hell." Amelia growls, but she doesn't run off.

Francis extends his arms in mockery, gesturing to the empty room. "We're already here. Our souls, damned by some silly little girl who would rather sit up here and feel sorry for herself than face up to the guilt and anger and pain she feels and do something about it!" he snarls.

Amelia doesn't even notice the feeling of moving her arm back and hurling the paperweight straight at him. It misses his head by an inch, shattering into the wall. The elder nation is up, and she realizes for a split second how tall he really is, nearly towering over her, but that doesn't stop her from practically attacking him. She manages to get in a few punches, the worst actually catching his cheek with her nails before somehow he pins her wrists to her side while she struggles.

"_Stop it! _You're an adult, not a child. Act like one." He yells these words now, and he knows he's going to hate himself in the next 20 seconds.

For a moment she doesn't even know that he's slapped her, doesn't even feel any pain until she's coming back to the present moment. Amelia stands, stunned until he lets go of her wrists, stepping back and taking a shaky breath.

"That wasn't fair." She hisses, and Francis wants to laugh, but can't bring himself to do anything other than resort to coldness.

"We're nations, Amelia. Our entire existence isn't fair."

* * *

><p><strong>Well, that was abrupt... sigh. I will probably edit this, but posted it just to see what you guys think. It's so much easier to write about France than England... God, I love the French way too much. Ideas for expansion? Let me know in comments! :) <strong>

**Also, probably shouldn't have been listening to _La Vie En Rose_ whilst writing this... Damn you, Bioshock Infinite! *cries and stuffs mouth full of brie and baguettes* Everything hurts. **

**READ AND REVIEW!:) **


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